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One Fine Day
by AND with RAF; Edited by DWR Savannah Georgia Smith slammed the door to her room. The sound echoed through the empty house. Daddy won’t be home for another two hours at the earliest. He’ll probably just forget. Again. Not satisfied with the lack of response, she tossed her backpack across the room, where it collided with the wall in a gratifying thud. She flung herself onto her bed, delighting in the reverberating noise from her backpack as well as the protest from the springs of her bed. Rage began to subside into pain. She grabbed a pillow and hugged it tightly, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. It isn’t fair, she thought to herself. Why did we have to move here? Just two weeks shy of her twelfth birthday, Everett Smith had decided he had had enough of sunny Florida and moved both of them to Mississippi. He didn’t even ask if she wanted to go to Mississippi; he just announced that the move was happening. It was his pattern, ever since Savannah’s mother had died – move at least twice a year, never staying in one spot. Savannah had just made friends in the sixth grade. I hate him. She had tried to make friends at her new school. Three weeks after they moved, she found herself attending the seventh grade in Greensville, MS. The boys became immature idiots upon seeing her, and the girls refused to speak to her. She couldn’t understand why—she was her normal, charming self. Sure, she was an early bloomer, her accent was deep Georgian, and she had always been tall for her age. She didn’t see how any of that justified the odd stares or dirty looks. Regardless of why, the result was the same: she sat alone at lunch, wishing she was somewhere else. The one person she might have confided in, her father, was always busy with work or lecturing. Or moving them to a new damn school. Which led to the embarrassed looks and problems like gym class today. Gym class today. The tears which had nearly dried began to leak from her eyes. She angrily brushed at them, suddenly furious once again. That damn rope. A lady shouldn't curse, even in her thoughts, her mother once told her. But her mom wasn't here. It was just Savannah, Savannah at the school, pulling on the stupid climbing rope, getting half way before the rope snapped, causing her to fall on her butt. The laughter wasn't the worse part. The smug gazes of some of the girls, girls she had hoped would be her new friends, stung the worst. She had fled the gym, ignoring the coach and the poorly made door which had fallen off its hinges behind her. She had gone into the safety of the locker room, to quickly change and leave Greensville Middle School behind her. Of course, her father would get a call, saying she had skipped class, even though she left only fifteen minutes early from her last period. Stupid. She hugged the pillow tighter, brushing a lock of her mousy brown hair from her face and sobbed into the pillow. She stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity. As Savannah finally glanced up, her clock radio informed her that it was only four in the afternoon. She kept the pillow in her arms for comfort, and then decided she would check the answering machine. She might be able to erase the message and then... And then what? Her father would be disappointed she left early, but he would be furious if he discovered she lied to him. Worse, he still believed in a wooden spoon and paddling her behind, even though she was almost a teenager--and it hurt! Everett Smith was a strong man. He never hit too hard, but the idea of a light tanning seemed foreign to him. Of course, he would also ground her. But maybe he would open his arms like he used to and she would rush into those strong arms and have a good cry... Savannah shook her head, suddenly furious at herself for her thoughts. That is in the past. He ain’t that way anymore and she ain’t coming back. Quit being a baby. She decided there were still a few boxes left over from the move which needed to be opened and put in their proper place. The exercise would do her good. She headed into the kitchen to grab a quick snack before finishing the spice cabinet. Crackers and cheese always cheered her up, but Savannah found her appetite fading even as she opened the refrigerator to retrieve the block of cheddar. Maybe she just wasn’t hungry, or maybe it was just today--even the thought of stealing some ice cream before dinner did nothing for her mood. Instead, she gave up on comfort food and turned to the pile of unpacking that awaited in the living room. She soon buried herself in opening boxes and finding places for the items inside. Briefly, she wondered what was the point of unpacking boxes which would be packed up again in six months or so, but she chased that thought away. Her right hand fell upon some family albums. They always belonged in the Study, as her daddy called it. It was his office, of course, but the Professor insisted it be called a study. Her mother always rolled her eyes behind his back and said, "Yes dear." Her mother told her the Study’s real purpose was to let her father have a place of his own, for his special things. The kitchen had always been their place, for baking and talking and the like, and the family room was for sitting, etc. Of course, that was before, before she had died and left Savannah behind with an angry stranger who looked like her father and talked like her father, but never smiled like he used to. Now, nothing was as it should be, except for his damn study where he would brood for hours before seeming to remember Savannah was even there. He might ignore me, but he won’t ignore his precious books. And it was with that thought in mind, she gathered up the albums and headed to the Study--the one room in the house where her father was sure to notice any changes. She decided to redecorate a bit, just thumb her nose a bit at the Professor. It was a large room, full of shelves with books of all sizes and various artifacts and trinkets artfully placed. The place smelled of wood polish, dry paper, leather, and cigars. Savannah had never seen her father smoke, but she knew he kept some in a fancy box he always placed on one of the high shelves, out of reach. Won’t stay that way for long, though. Before anything else, she needed to find a good place for the albums. The pictures were some of the only things she still had of her mother’s, so she felt they deserved a good home in the study--besides, at least they never done anything to offend or neglect her, unlike some people she could name. A spot near the window seat would do nicely. There. Just as it should be. That done, she took a look around the room and considered what other “helpful” changes to make. A leather-bound book got moved to the opposite side of the room and two shelves down; a strange-looking hat her father claimed to be an exact miniature replica of a Roman helm got placed in a drawer; and his favorite paper weight, which was just some old rock, she shoved behind a bust of Minerva. Satisfied that her father would be thoroughly annoyed, she continued the subtle re-arranging of the room. Now where did that cigar box go? She knew he kept it on one of the top shelves, and while she was tall for her age, this was still too high for her to see. A borrowed chair from the kitchen solved that problem easily enough, and within a few minutes, the intricately carved box was in her hands. Savannah plopped down into her father’s large leather desk chair and studied the box, trying to decide where to hide it. After a few minutes, the desire to annoy her father left her, replaced only with longing--longing for her mother, longing for the father she remembered, and longing for her home, her real home. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the click from inside the box, but she sure noticed the weird light shining out from the edges. “What the...?” she murmured, the words escaping aloud on her breath. Now, she might not be an expert on cigars, but she was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to glow. More curious than afraid, Savannah lifted the lid. The light wasn’t blinding, and it didn’t envelop her and whisk her off to faerie land; no, it just moved past her and filled up most of a wall, pulsing slowly with a faint purple tinge. The way Savannah figured, she had two options. She could freak out and run screaming from the room, pack up her things, and run away--because obviously that wasn’t a normal box--or she could take a deep breath and calmly investigate the strange light. Never having been one much for screaming, she went with latter. Well, here goes nothing. Savannah stepped through the arch, and the world dissolved into warm light. His unconscious sense of awareness kicked in as Everett Smith swung his bicycle sharply to the right as the driver carelessly cut into the bike lane. His well-worn satchel clipped a parked car’s side mirror and ripped open, spilling his books and papers everywhere. The oblivious driver continued forward to make a right turn ahead of the Professor, who braked to rescue his students’ papers from floating off. The end of a perfect day, Everett fumed as he snatched papers from the air with remarkable dexterity. The satchel rested limply at his side, a birthday present from Dan Morgan in 1970. A pencil rolled from his grasp as he bent down to retrieve it, the memory of a ten-year-old Sorcha skipping around flowing into his consciousness. I chose the color, Mr. Everett, she had proudly stated. He remembered sharing a laugh with Dan, and the destruction of the gift kept his mood foul. Maybe I should give Sorcha a call--this move has been hard on Savannah. He closed the satchel’s ripped bottom with one hand and filled it with his retrieved goods. Riding one-handed had never proved a difficult challenge, and today was no different--just more annoying. The remaining blocks to the house flowed by without further incident and he found himself coasting into the driveway. He remembered to keep up appearances and waved to old Mister Carmichael next door, hoping to get into the house without-- “Nice night, don’t you think, Everett?” No such luck. “Evening, Murray.” He dropped the kickstand and rested the bike upon it. As he carefully placed the ruined satchel down on the ground, Murray Carmichael came over and rested his elbows on the fence that separated their houses, a gesture Everett knew meant he wanted to talk. He reached for his keys. “The funniest thing happened today, you’ll never believe it. I was talking with Miss Nancy a couple of homes down, and she started calling you ‘doctor.’ Doctor! She was quite insistent, too.” “I am, Murray. A doctor of history.” “You don’t say? I thought she meant the black bag kind of doctor.” “Murray, I’m sorry, I’ve got a full night of grading ahead of me.” He knew he was making a southern faux pas, but he needed an escape. He inwardly promised Carmichael he would talk to him tomorrow after work. Maybe over ice tea. Everett unlocked the garage door, rolling it up to he could park his bike in its spot in the corner. He grabbed the satchel from the driveway, rolled the door back down, and made his way in through the interior door into the house’s kitchen. “Savannah?” he called out as he entered, tossing the damaged satchel on the counter. No answer came. A twinge of concern rose in his chest, the quieter, chillier worry that had persisted for the last two years. She normally had dinner ready by now, although she hadn’t cooked since they moved to Greensville--life had been cold sandwiches and chips. He noted the blinking light on the answering machine and pressed the play button, half on reflex and half because it might be a message from his daughter. The recording came to life with the too-chipper tones of an automated recording. Dear sir or madam, the voice chirped gratingly, we are calling to inform you that your son or daughter missed one or more periods in school today at Greensville Middle School. Everett frowned--that didn’t seem like Savannah at all. “Savannah?” he tried again once again, panic rising up in his chest. He hurried through the house, nearly lifting off the floor in his haste, searching for his daughter. Nothing. “Savannah!” Her name tore itself from his voice. Oh, god, not today. Not her, he prayed. In his study, he spied the cigar box sitting open on the desk. Impossible! She couldn’t have gotten into the Vault, could she? He moved towards the box and it recognized him--the light of the shimmering arch returned to where a plain wall should have been. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, F’uz the Valorian took a step into the Vault’s portal. The Vault hadn’t changed in the two years since he retired--that was the first thing through his mind. And then he spied the lone figure before the Central Computer, beyond the round table and the hanging ceremonial uniform of Valor Prime--the one highly recognizable as the prototype for The Praetorian’s costume. She looked so small and helpless. His heart leaped in his chest. “Savannah?” The whisper became a roaring echo in the emptiness of the Vault. Slowly, she turned from the computer to stare at him. She didn’t scream or yell, she just looked at him, her normally blue eyes were now a deep purple and slightly narrowed. Her arms were locked at her sides, her hands balled into fists, her small body trembling with barely contained tension. Everett saw the accusing look in her purple eyes. She knows. And then, purple? Despite her fury, he found his gaze drawn to her eyes, then to her hair--it was no longer brunette but now a sandy hue. Even as he watched, its color faded, surpassing even Charlotte’s full golden color to end up a platinum, almost silver blond. “Sweetheart? What are you doing here?” “What am I doing here...?” Her eyes narrowed further. “What the hell is ‘here’ doing here?” He wanted to correct her language, his fathering instincts suppressed by the fury of her words. For the first time since the funeral, words failed him--and Savannah didn’t make it any easier as she pressed him. “Well, ain’t ya gonna say something? Or is that what this fancy talking computer is supposed to do--explain everything like this was normal? This is the real reason we move all the time, ain’t it? This is why that man grabbed me. It wasn’t ’cause Momma had an important job--it was you. All of it, it was your fault. You lied about everything. Am I even who you say I am?” Her voice reached a strident note, breaking with erupting emotions. “Are you even my real father?” His signature temper threatened to flare up, but it faded swiftly to sadness. It took a long moment to find the words. “I’ve always been your father, sweetheart. You’ve been my little miracle since day one.” He turned from her accusing eyes to collect his composure, gazing upon the uniform. It was a minute before he tried again. “Um, as you figured out, Savannah, I’m not from Earth. And technically, you’re not human either, apparently...” He knew it was a mistake before the words even left his mouth. Tears began to form in the corner of her eyes, eyes that were now their normal blue. “How am I supposed to believe anything you say?” Then the first tears fell. “Did she even know? Were you even planning on telling me any of this...?” He couldn’t hold back anymore. He crossed the room swiftly to gather her up in his arms. “Of course your mother knew. I meant to tell you, by God I meant to tell you. But your mother died and it became too painful to mention it...” Tears began to fall down his face. “I should have told you. Your mother wanted to tell you earlier--she was right; she always was right. Forgive me?” She didn’t fight him, but she didn’t reply either. She just held onto him tightly and cried. Slowly, the tension seemed to drain from her frame and she buried her face against his chest, muffling the sounds of her sniffles and hiding her tears. Savannah shooed her father out of the bathroom. His concern was touching, but she didn’t need him underfoot. She moved back to the mirror and glanced at the tell-tale Valorian blond hair which now rested upon her head. My father’s an alien. And apparently, I am too. She wasn’t sure if she liked the blond, but she did know she didn’t want to explain the new shade tomorrow at school. A drug-store container of hair dye should do the trick and it couldn’t be that hard, right? Daddy’s The Praetorian? Well, that did help explain why he was so painfully old-fashioned. Since he was super old, it made sense that he was all traditional and stuff. The alien parts made less sense, but no one said she had to understand it all at once. Still, it was hard to believe that she was normal with her new reflection staring back at her. Well, this hair won’t dye itself. The timer buzzed, signaling the prescribed thirty minutes had passed. Savannah glanced in the mirror on the way to the tub. Her hair looked more like a dark wet animal on her head than anything else, but the box said you couldn’t tell how well the dye took until after a good rinse and dry. Savannah turned on the tub and flicked the lever up. As she watched the dye pool in the tub and swirl down the drain, she sighed. There it goes, life as I knew it. Quick as that, it all goes down the drain. At least this new revelation explained a whole helluva lot about her life and her family, but deep down it just reinforced what she had already known. I really am all alone. There is no one in the whole world like me and they know it. That’s why they all hate me. She turned off the water and blindly grabbed for a towel. She mechanically dried her hair and then took a deep breath. Time to pretend like I’m all normal again. Savannah then lifted her eyes, expecting to see her old familiar reflection staring back. Instead, what she saw made her scream. It looked like a paintball had exploded on her head; the hair dye only took in small areas, and even then, not very well. And it was then that the door burst open and her father rushed in, in full-on-attack mode. “It’s ruined,” she sobbed, tears falling all over again. “Now, I really do look like a freak.” “It’s not that bad...” Everett began placatingly. “Not that bad?!” Savannah cried. “Well, it needs a little work. The scissors are in the bottom drawer there.” She furrowed her brow as if in physical pain. Inwardly, she willed her temper contained. All that was left was the mounting pressure. He wants me to get rid of off my hair? He really is an alien. “I ain’t cutting off my hair, Daddy.” “Well, we can try again...” “I don’t want to try again! I want to be normal!” The pressure howled for release. She shut her eyes to block out the pain. A startled gasp and the explosive sound of thunder caused her to look up. Before her, the open bathroom door revealed a large sphere-shaped hole in the side of the house. Her father was missing. She placed a hand over her mouth to stop the scream as she rushed over to the opening. Everett was sprawled out in the small garden in their backyard. He looked unhurt but surprised. She saw Mister Carmichael standing in his backyard, his jaw agape as he peered over the fence. She watched her father pick himself up and casually dust off his pants, stopping upon the spying of Mister Carmichael. “Evening, Murray. I’ll tell you what, I’ve never had a hot-water heater explode on me like that.” He gestured toward the hole in the side of house as Savannah ducked back inside, sneaking back into the bathroom. Maybe he’s right about the scissors.... “Good heavens, Everett! Are you alright?!” Savannah signed as she picked up the shears. Category:Fiction